


En Garde, Prêts, Allez

by phantomreviewer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fencing, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 04:08:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2533631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomreviewer/pseuds/phantomreviewer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No, no, hold the grip like this, it’s an extension of your hand – oh, you would have picked out a French grip, pistol’s where it’s at, much nicer on the palm; like a handshake.”</p><p>It hadn’t looked nicer to Enjolras the smooth straight shaft of the French gripped foil looked far easier to hold than the spikey looking thing that Grantaire had slotted his hand into earlier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	En Garde, Prêts, Allez

**Author's Note:**

  * For [courf](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=courf).



> I saw a fencing prompt ( _Enjolras being taught how to fence by R_ ) and I just had to write a quick little treat, because I can never resist a fencing prompt, let alone a fencing Grantaire. 
> 
> (Possibly more about fencing than anything else I'm afraid, I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.)
> 
> Happy Halloween courf/Kate!

“No, no, hold the grip like this, it’s an extension of your hand – oh, you would have picked out a French grip, pistol’s where it’s at, much nicer on the palm; like a handshake.”

It hadn’t looked _nicer_ to Enjolras the smooth straight shaft of the French gripped foil looked far easier to hold than the spikey looking thing that Grantaire had slotted his hand into earlier.

Grantaire was in his element with teaching. He denied that he was technically a teacher, he was only assisting the training while he recovered from pulling his knee out of joint, insisted that it would only be a temporary position. But it had led to Grantaire being free to flex and posture Enjolras to his liking prior to kitting him up.

Enjolras wasn’t even sure why he wanted to fence; he supposed that there was something elegant about it, but he rarely spent time with Grantaire. And to spend time with a passionate and able Grantaire would be worth any number of wounds that he could accumulate, surely.

Grantaire had torn off his helmet the moment that Enjolras had stepped into the practice hall and had bounded over to him, lanky mop of hair falling out of its bandana, in a feeble attempt to try and keep the worst of it out of his eyes as he fought. 

The kit is ridiculous, Enjolras had seen the layers upon layers that Grantaire had bedecked himself in. Grantaire wearing britches, Enjolras is not. Grantaire has decked himself up in a full kit apart from the thick, black padded jacket, “to protect me from flailing learners, like your own fine self.”

Enjolras had flushed, aware that his freckles must be framing his flaming cheeks, as he tied his hair up into a bun. He hadn’t been that bad.

“Isn’t fencing far too a bourgeois sport for you to entertain, think of the _oppression_.”

Grantaire is teasing him, even as he adjusts Enjolras’ posture and cups his elbow in an attempt to make Enjolras loosen his grip. Ironically, Enjolras doesn’t want to pick a fight.

“This isn’t the nineteenth century Grantaire; there are no more duals to the death.”

“You think? You think my injury was an accident?”

Enjolras is just about to reply - can Grantaire take nothing seriously, he had ended up in hospital after all- when Grantaire tugs the blade from Enjolras’ hand.

“Come on, footwork.”

The foils are left to rest against the wall, where Grantaire has left his water and kit bag and where Enjolras his jacket and keys. He knows that Grantaire has named his own blades, and Enjolras isn’t sure whether or not he’s offended that Grantaire hadn’t offered him one of his own weapons at the beginning. All of Grantaire’s foils have pistol grips, so he supposes he made the right choice.

Enjolras feels strangely self-conscious as he follows Grantaire’s led in the footwork, even though he knows that only Grantaire is paying attention to him.  There are the small delicate steps, and long prominent lunges. It’s almost like a dance, as they’re making their way up and down the _piste_ , but as Grantaire reminds him, it’s not a race. He’d have never thought that Grantaire could show such patience, with the sport, but also with him.

Grantaire seemingly took great pleasure in correcting his footwork, stop turning your ankle over as you come forward or you’ll topple over. He had lost balance, just the once.

Grantaire makes the footwork look delicate, even as he leaps absurdly and lands with a clatter – a _balestra_ or so he explains after he’s steadied himself – which Enjolras can’t hope to emulate, yet. Once Grantaire has finished showing off he re-arms Enjolras, and now Enjolras feels comfortable with the weapon.

“Now, the chest is quartered for foil; here, here, here and here.”

Grantaire guides the blade, steering it from the point towards the various sections of his chest as he counts them off, giving the technical names that Enjolras knows that he won’t be able to record to memory.

It soon devolves into something that approaches an actual fight. A different fight to which they normally engage in, this time they are armoured and armed, and their weapons are not words. Grantaire is obviously going soft on him, it’s more of a guided practice than it is a real bout, can hardly hear what Grantaire is saying through their helmets.

Grantaire laughs as Enjolras hits him, bang on target, and Enjolras is just about to make a reply when there is a buzzer, indicating the end of the session.

The salute that Grantaire throws him is almost lazy, and Enjolras copied, concentrating on the point of his blade, before pulling off his helmet. Enjolras’ hair is a veritable bird’s nest from just a short bout, and his matted curls are falling into his face. It was harder work than he’d been expecting.

“So, same time next week?”

Grantaire is seemingly aiming for casual, but there’s a genuine question in his eyes, as though Enjolras’ continued interest matters. And Enjolras is interested, interested in the sport, interested in perfecting what he’s started to learn, and he’s interested in spending more time with Grantaire. He hadn’t thought that he’d have enjoyed any of it as much as he did.

“Next time I’ll beat you.”

Grantaire smiled, and Enjolras smiled back with no trepidation at all.

“Sure you will Enjolras, sure you will.”


End file.
